Tuesday, 7 July 2015

I'm so glad that so may tributes were made today, for all those who were affected by the London bombings. I'd like to add mine for what it's worth. I hope you enjoy reading.

I clatter down the steps to
the tube in my impossibly high black Nicole Farhi shoes. They’re not the kind of footwear any girl
should be running in but today I need every ounce of confidence I can muster and
these certainly give me that. I just
wish I wasn’t so late. Not when I’m about
to meet my new boss who, rumour has it, eats recruitment consultants like me as
a light snack before he even contemplates breakfast. Apparently he’s a stickler
for punctuality. I look at my watch – eight
thirty five, I’m going to be really pushing it to get to the office before
nine. Let’s just hope the trains are
running smoothly.

To my dismay the foyer of the
station looks like Selfridges on the first day of the January sales. My tube
pass in hand and with the skill of a seasoned commuter, I make a concerted
attempt to get to the ticket barrier, weaving my way around the ditherers and
the women with pushchairs. Couldn’t they at least wait until the rush hour is
over?

I push through the ticket
barrier and dash towards the escalator. The
slim heels of my shoes catch between the ridges of the steps and my progress is
slow. Behind me I feel the bulk of a
businessman trying to speed down in his shiny flat shoes, his toes catching at
my ankles but I refuse to move aside. And
then we’re brought to a halt by a woman standing in the way. Doesn’t she know the unwritten rule of the
underground escalators?

“Excuse me.” I say as I come
to a halt, the man behind me almost bumping into me. I flinch involuntarily away from this bulk.

‘Sorry?’ the woman turns to
face me.

‘You need to keep moving on
this side,’ I try to explain. ‘If you want to stand still you need to be on the
right.’

She shakes her head as though
I’m a creature from another planet but does not move. The man tuts behind me, it’s like a pressure
pot in here but as we near the bottom of the escalator I give up. What
difference will a few seconds make now?

Once more on level ground I
weave in front of her and head for the next escalator, continuing my journey
into the bowels of the earth.

The smell of dust mingling
with iron filings hits the back of my throat as I reach the platform just in
time to see the doors closing as they swallow up a mass of commuters.

“Damn!” those few seconds
could have made a world of difference after all. I really hate the tube, hate
the stale fetid air which flows through the tunnels, constantly recycled but
never refreshed. The thought of carbon
dioxide expelled from unwashed bodies disgusts me. If there was any other way I
could get to work I would use it but the tube is fast and efficient and free
from the congestion on the roads.

Although a train has just
left, the platform is still jam packed. The monitor announces the arrival of
next train in two minutes but underground minutes are unlike any other. They can bend and stretch to suit themselves and
are really no indication of the actual passage of time.

I glance again at my watch –
eight forty – I might still make it if I’m really lucky although I will have to
make a dash for it at the other end. I’m
already feeling sticky and sweaty in my suit and the cloying air is just making
me sweat even more.

Commuters are merging onto
the platform at an alarming rate, and I try to breathe slowly and deeply; I’ve
never been any good in crowds. Normally
I prefer to travel in a centre carriage.
It’s a ritual I have, a kind of safety net, but there are too many
people standing in the middle of the platform so I elbow my way down to where
the crowds thin slightly. I morph myself into the smallest space possible so
that when the train does arrive I will be in a position to squeeze through the
doors at the front of the queue.

The swell of sweating bodies around
me makes me feel ill. The monitor above chalks off another minute and I can
literally feel people tense as they prepare themselves for the surge forward
when the tube arrives; those at the back panicking that they won’t manage to
squeeze on.

A rush of even hotter air
announces the imminent arrival of the train and I clutch my handbag closer to
me to ensure that we do not get separated in the push forward, as we go over
the top!

Today I’m lucky, I’ve judged
the position just right and am standing right where the doors open. I don’t think I would‘ve made it onto the
train if I had ended up standing in the middle of the carriage, away from the
doors. I take a deep breath and allow
myself to be pushed forward into the train.
I’ve learnt over time that the only thing you can do when it’s this busy
is to go with the flow. Once on the
train I’m pushed three quarters of the way down the middle of the carriage. Standing in between the seated I reach up to
hold onto the thing that looks like an upside down Zebedee. They’re supposed to help you keep your
balance but they are so bendy that you just end up swaying all over the place
with your armpit in someone else’s face.
There’s not much chance of movement today though as we’re all packed
into the train like sardines in a tin. As
the doors attempt to close there’s one last surge as people panic that they
won’t get on. The doors bounce back and then finally close.

If it was hot on the platform
it's hotter inside the train. I have the misfortune to be standing next to a
man who smells like he needs an introduction to soap and water and I’m so close
to the woman on the other side of me that I can’t move away from him. I grit my
teeth and wonder if I can hold my breath all the way to Covent Garden.

Surreptitiously I take a look
around the carriage being very careful not make eye contact.

A
man two seats down is reading his book – lucky thing – at least he has
something to take his mind off the heat.
I try to take a peek at the cover to see what he’s reading but he’s
holding it at an angle and I can’t make it out.

The headlines from the
smattering of newspapers I can see scream Olympic success. I smile ruefully, my hangover this morning is
a direct result of that victory. What a brilliant night! Six of us, all friends
since uni, celebrating the winning bid for the 2012 Olympics. Dan, one of our
friends, works on the bid committee and our joy was as much for him and all his
hard work as it was for the city itself.
What a huge boost for London,
especially pipping the smug French to the post.
I only hope that we can pull it
off. How wonderful it would be to have a good sporting name across the world,
rather than be known for losing at the last minute or for hooliganism. It's a shame really because most of us are
proud of being British and our strong heritage.

Despite
my moans about the tube I love living in London
and quite honestly at the moment I love my life. In two months time I’m going to be married to
the most wonderful man in the world and I can’t wait. Phil really is the man of my dreams, the
other half of my jigsaw piece. We met at
the Fresher’s fair at university before we had even begun our courses, him law,
me business studies, and for me it was love at first sight. He says he was pretty bowled over by me too –
instantly taken with my dark curly hair and green eyes. His nickname for me is catty, not, he says
as a reflection on my temperament but because of the colour of my eyes.

After
I had done the rounds of the fair, joining up for a few of the sporty clubs, I
headed to the student union bar and there he was again, waiting to be served. Deciding to seize the moment I squeezed in
next to him.

“Hello
again,” I said softly

He
smiled at me; that smile lighting up his face and reaching his dark brown eyes.

“Hello!”

It was definitely a pleased
to see you type of hello.

“Can I get you a drink?” he
asked, and with those words we sealed our fate.

We’ve been together ever
since, even when he decided to go to York after uni to take his post-graduate
course. Life wasn’t easy but we survived
the separation and soon he was back down in London
and we were sharing a flat in FinsburyPark. When he asked me to
marry him I didn’t have a moment’s hesitation. I’ll never find anyone like Phil
and wouldn’t want to. On 25 September 2005 we’re going to tie the knot in my
village church and I just can’t wait. Then it's off on honeymoon to Mauritius for
two weeks of sun, sand, romance and whatever else you’re supposed to do on
honeymoon. Despite the discomfort in the carriage I smile. Phil seems to be anticipating our honeymoon
with exuberance at the moment; he can’t seem to keep his hands off me, not that
I’m complaining. I’m not usually one for
early morning frolics but today, despite a slight thumping hangover and a
revolting taste in my mouth I couldn’t resist him when he reached of for me in
our waking moments. I know I should be feeling remorseful because I knew it
would make me late but in that moment all rational thoughts left my head. I’m
paying for it now though and will do so even more, I’m sure, when I get to the
office.

I love the hustle and bustle
of London, the endless opportunities for entertainment and culture. There are so many places to visit,
restaurants to eat at, cinemas, theatres and clubs to dance the night away in. I love the wide pavements and streets and the
tall buildings; the architecture and the sense of history. Right now, my life
is just about perfect.

Tonight,
Phil and I are having a rare night in tonight on our own. We’ve been out so much really or had friends
round to us, that I am quite looking forward to a cosy night in. We had a new dining room tables and chairs
delivered last week and I’m going to dress the table with candles, and cook us
a romantic meal. I bought some huge king prawns yesterday which I’m going to
sizzle in garlic and chilli and eat with huge chunks of garlic bread. Then I’m planning to cook steaks with pepper
sauce, roasted Mediterranean vegetables and new potatoes. And for desert, well,
I think we might make that up as we go along.

The tube stops at Kings Cross
and the pack of sardines wriggles as commuters squeeze their way off before a
new surge of passengers squash themselves back in. In the mêlée I manage to bag
myself a seat and plonk myself down triumphant.
It's not very far to my destination but at least the air smells a bit
better down here.

The doors squeeze shut once
more and the tube hauls itself away from the platform. I close my eyes and
picture my wedding dress. I can’t wait
to go for a fitting on Saturday, one more glimpse at the most beautiful dress I
could ever imagine wearing. It has a
gorgeous cream bodice which fits like a second skin, and is covered in tiny
pearls which have been individually sewn on. The back is all laced up with
satin laces and it fits so snugly I even look like I have a cleavage. The skirt
flares out in the most delightful river of satin into a huge train at the
back.

I
have to confess that I am usually a trousers kind of girl and don’t possess
that many dresses. And although I have a
bit of a penchant for shoes, I’m more of a tom boy that a girly girl but if you
can’t be girly on your wedding day when can you be?

I’m planning on wearing my
hair up and with selected curls framing my face in an exotic gypsy style. I aim
to be tanned and even though I can’t afford a holiday this summer I’m planning
on spending as much of my spare time on sunny days sunbathing in Hyde Park.

An enormous bang rips me from my
day-dreaming and throws me out of my seat. Oh my God what the hell is going on?
My eyes are open wide but I can’t see a thing – it’s pitch black and for a
moment I think I’ve gone blind. I can’t hear anything either. Am I deaf?
Am I dead? Is this what being
dead feels like? I don’t feel dead. I don’t think I do anyway. There are bodies
all around me, someone actually lying across me. I start to choke, and for a brief moment I’m
reassured that I’m not dead. But the
relief is fleeting as I can’t stop coughing.
There’s smoke everywhere, and I can’t breathe. My lungs are burning. Panic rips through me.
Is the carriage on fire? Am I going to
die here anyway? A barbequed sardine
burnt to a crisp. Kings Cross. A fire at King’s Cross. Oh please God! Not
again. Phil! I’ll never see Phil again.
Nooooo!!!!!!!

Calm
down, clam down. Think. I need a mask. Something to put over my
face. Tissues? Don’t know where my bag
is. Gone. I reach down. My trousers are torn.
Can I rip a piece off and hold it over my face, stop the worst of the
smoke from getting into my lungs. Will I
suffocate anyway doing that? It's hot. So bloody hot down here. No air. Got to have air. It's like being underwater.
A strange weird treading water type of atmosphere.

The
emergency lights click on and it's not pitch black anymore. I’m not blind. I
can make out shapes in the eerie gloom but little else. My hearing is shot. It
sounds like there’s water rushing through my ears and everything is distorted, speed
has slowed right down like the batteries are running out. But I can hear
screaming and anguished cries. The person who was lying across me shuffles up,
fishes for their mobile phone and it lights up silhouetting them. Scary. A sane
thinking person rips a fire extinguisher off the wall and smashes open the
window. A rush of air floods in and
Thank God we can all breathe a little easier!

‘What
the hell happened?’ comes the question. ‘Did we crash?’

‘Does
anyone know we’re down here?’

‘How
long will it take to rescue us?’

There are more questions than answers and
although now we don’t appear to be in any real danger I realise we could still
die down here. Slowly and painfully
because nobody knows where we are.

There’s
a faint humming in the distance and someone shushing us halts the questions.

‘What’s
that noise?’

Straining to hear. Straining to
understand. And then the realisation. Oh my God it's another train.

Quickly
I curl back up again, my head in my hands, bracing myself for the crash as the
other train hits us, my face pressed into the dust and the dirt on the floor. A
flood of relief as the train seems to pass by. Thank God it’s on another line.

‘They
don’t know we’re here,’ a voice declares and I wonder what’s going on in the
outside world. Is everything going on as
normal up there while in a moment our whole world has changed?

As
my hearing starts to improve the screams become louder. My God how many people have been injured? I
begin to feel a dull throb in my leg where my trousers have been ripped and
tentatively I feel for the damage. I
wince as my hand presses on my leg. It’s
sticky. With blood? I hold my hand up to my face but all I can see is a black
ooze.

‘Are
you hurt?’ It’s the man who was lying on top of me. The man with the phone.

‘I
think so, my leg.’ I say and now that I’m aware of my injury the pain
intensifies. Around me people are beginning to move to assess their
injuries. There’s a woman a few bodies
down from me who has started to scream and I wonder how badly hurt she is.

‘Everyone
keep calm.’ A voice seems to take control. ‘Anyone who can, stand up, then
we’ll know who has been injured the most.’

I try to haul myself up
against the carriage seat but although my brain is telling my leg to move the
instruction is just not reaching it.

‘Hold
still.’ The man next to me says again, ‘Let me have a look at you.’

His hand touches my leg and the pain surges
through me like an electric shock. I
bite my teeth together refusing to scream. I must not panic.

‘You’re
loosing a lot of blood.’

And as he says it I wonder for one brief
moment whether I’m going to loose my leg. Panic judders up again but I force it
back down again.

‘Here.’ He takes his tie off and wraps it around my
thigh tightening it in a tourniquet. ‘This should help with the blood loss.’

‘Thank you.’ I say and my
words woefully inadequate. ‘Thank you so much.
Are you hurt?’

‘Not so much I don’t
think. A bump on the head, my face is
sore. But I’m fine. I’m Simon by the
way.’

“Ali,” I reply thinking that
if I am going to die at least I won’t be alone.

‘First aid we need first aid,’ a
voice shouts and the reply comes:

‘On
the wall. There are first aid boxes on the walls. By the end of the carriage.’

‘It’s
here. But it’s locked!’

‘Bloody
typical of London Transport. No bloody
contingency plans for an emergency.’

‘Shush,
I think I can hear something. I think it’s the driver. I can’t hear what he is
saying. Everyone. Quiet please.’

Even
the whimpers of those badly injured die down as we all strain to hear what’s
going on. Perhaps, if the driver is
alive, then just maybe he’ll be able to get us out of here, if not in one piece
then at least alive. I’ve never been big
on religion but silently now I start to pray. Please God let us get out I don’t
want this heap of metal to become my coffin.

‘Right.
I could just about make him out,’ says a man at the end of the carriage. ‘The
driver is alive and he thinks if he can move the train just a little then he
can get us out of here. We’ll have to
walk down the tracks and they may be live but he thinks it’s going to be
OK. We have to wait until he can see if
he can move. We need to let the other carriages know so pass the message down
and eventually it’ll get to the end.
Tell them not to worry if the train starts to move.’

As
the message is passed down the carriage I hope that this is not a case of
Chinese whispers which ends up with a completely distorted message at the end.
I hope those people all down the track, if there is anyone alive that is, finds
out that there’s still hope.

There’s
a buzz of excitement in the carriage now.
Perhaps the driver will be able to radio a message to the outside world.
Perhaps we will be able to escape down the tracks. No one seems to care how difficult that might
be, or how dangerous, because anything is better than this and everyone is
clinging onto the one faint hope of survival.

But
I’m worried. What if I can’t walk? What if I can’t manage to make my escape with
the others? What if they leave me here to die with those who too are dying or
are already dead? No, that’s not going
to happen. I don’t care how bloody difficult or painful it’s going to be, I’m
going to get off this train with everyone else.

Now
that we have something to hope for the waiting seems endless, each minute drags
out like an hour. In the meantime I
decide to try and hoist myself into one of the seats. At least then I’ll have a
fighting chance.

‘What
are you doing? You need to keep still.
Keep that leg flat.’

‘I
need to get off this train. I’m getting ready to go when the rest of you
do. There’s no way I’m staying here.’

‘But
that’s mad. You’ll never make it. Stay
here. We can alert the emergency
services they’ll be here soon.’

‘I’m not staying down here.’
My mother always said I had a stubborn streak and the thought of staying down
here, alone but for the dead or the dying terrifies me. I can’t just give up.

The train jolts slightly and
then slowly the doors open. The driver
directs everyone down a wooden ladder and onto the track. Unlike this morning’s
dash down the escalator there’s no panic and no mad dash to get out first. We are British people in a crisis and we’re
doing things in a polite manner; banding together to help our fellow man. Or woman.

‘After you, Madam,’

‘No after you, Sir.’

It could only happen
here.

Despite excruciating pain I’ve
hauled myself onto the seat. It has set
the blood pumping but as long as I don’t bleed to death before I get to the end
of the track I know I’ll be alright. The
now familiar voice is at my ear.

‘Are you sure you want to go
through with this?’

‘No
question.’

‘Right
then, we’d better get you on your feet. Let’s see if you can make it to the end
of the carriage. That’ll be a start.’

He’s
given me a lifeline. He’s given me his
faith. And no matter what happens to us
on the outside, right now this stranger is the most important person in my
life.

‘Thank
you.’

Again
the words seem balefully inadequate. I take a deep breath and lever myself onto
my feet. Hot stabbing coals pierce my
leg and judder into my spine and I wonder how the hell I’m going manage all the
way down the tracks? Would I be best to stay here after all? My instinct is to
sag back down onto the seat and let him walk past me to freedom. But I’ve made a song and dance about getting
off this train and I’ve never been a quitter.

‘You
OK?’

‘Yes,’
I almost cry out in pain.

‘Think
you can make it?’

‘Yes,’
I lie.

‘Lean
on me then.’

And
I do. Another thing my mother has always said about me is that I’m
independent. Far too independent by half
used to be her curse when I wouldn’t do what she wanted me to. I hate depending on anyone to help me through
anything. But right now I know I don’t
have a choice and I’m just grateful that although I began this journey on my
own, there is someone here who will help me finish it.

We
do a weird crab like shuffle across the carriage and it takes like about a week. People are waiting patiently behind me.

‘Let
the others get off the train first,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to hold them up.’

‘I’m
staying with you,’ Simon says. And I’ve
never been so pleased in my life. If he’d
said he was going to go it alone I’d have let him save his own skin. But I know I’m not going to make it without
him and I’m sure he knows it too.

‘You
sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘Let’s
go then.’

My
saviour heads halfway down the ladder before reaching up to help me down. The track is eerily lit by the emergency
lights but is never-ending.

‘This
is the long walk to freedom,’ I hear someone say jokily, obviously trying to
mask his own fear. He’s not far wrong there.

‘Let
me carry you,’ Simon says when I’ve made my excruciating way to the bottom of
the ladder.

‘No
way. It's too far. Go in front on me and
let me lean on you. You can be my crutch.’ And so we begin our own long walk.

With each step I feel like I’m
about to pass out. Around me I can hear people jokingly trying to encourage
each other on, boost the spirits but I tune it out in my effort to
concentrate. We walk between the lines
of the track because we still don’t know if they’re live and I’m so afraid that
my legs are about to give out on me. Frying tonight. The phrase keeps coming
into my head. Oh God please let me get
out of here.

The
longer we walk the less able I feel that I can continue. I’m mad to even attempt
this. I shouldn’t have been so stubborn. I should have waited for the
paramedics to come and get me.

‘You
OK?’ Simon asks when I nearly stumble
for the second time in as many minutes.

‘Yeah.
I’m fine.’ I grit my teeth determined to
find the strength to carry on. Each step
is a step nearer to freedom.

And
then I hear it. The talking gets louder
and in the distance I can make out the silhouettes of my fellow travellers
being lifted onto the platform by other dark shapes.

‘Look!’
I whisper unable to believe my eyes – am I hallucinating?

‘No,
I can see it too. Just a little while
longer and we’ll have made it. Can’t
wait to get a breath of fresh air. My lungs feel like they are clogged up with
smoke.’

‘Mine
too.’

In
front of us the pace quickens and with a last final surge of energy we finally
reach the platform and are lifted up the tracks. The strong arms of someone hauling me on to
the platform is the last thing I remember before finally passing out.

Monday, 6 July 2015

A power or agency that predetermines
and orders the course of events; that these events are ordered or inevitable or
unavoidable and that humans can have no effect upon their own fates or upon the
fates of others.

I’ve always
wondered about fate. Are our lives predestined or do things happen purely through
chance?

Is it fate
that makes you miss the train or the plane that crashes or is it just
luck? Or is it just bad luck for you to
be on that train or plane.

It’s
definitely grist to the writer’s mill and it’s something that has been
particularly on my mind recently, especially after the recent terrorism in Tunisia.
What if those people on the beach had decided to spend the day by the pool
instead, or go on a day trip, or even go on holiday to another resort or
country? It makes you wonder.

It would be
hard not to be aware of the fact that this week is the 10th anniversary
of the bombings in London on 7 July 2005.

Like 9/11 I
don’t think anyone will forget where they were as the news of these devastating
acts of terrorism unfolded, and watching the documentaries which are being
shown in memory of the anniversary, I am no less horrified today than I was ten
years ago.

I lived in
London for nine years, only coming back to the north-west in 1995. I thought nothing of whizzing around on the
tubes and buses, it really is the only way to get around. So those bombers weren’t just making a
protest they were trying to destroy the very essence of London life.

A week after
the event, I had to go down to London for a work meeting, to Russell Square of
all places, where the organisation I worked for had an office. I must admit to being very nervous. What if my one-off journey proved to be the
day that a further strike was made on the city?
It didn’t help that armed police were patrolling the tiny Chester train
station, which completely unnerved me.
My boss told me to get a taxi when I reached Euston station and so I
made my way underground to the taxi rank.

I phoned my
husband to let him know that I had arrived safely when an alarm went off and
over the tannoy we were told to evacuate the building. The rail staff directed us outwards towards
daylight but when we got there, the police were directing us back into the
building. I was pretty scared I can tell you and I seriously thought that these
might be my last moments. I can still
remember the relief when I made it out in one piece. All thoughts of getting a taxi fled from my
mind and I walked to the office. Mind
you, walking down the route that the fateful bus had taken was unnerving in
itself.

It turned out
that the evacuation was the result of someone who had left a bag unattended,
but the police were on high alert because the next day the accomplices to the
bombers were arrested.

I’m not sure
whether it’s because of that experience, or because London is very much in my
blood, that the events of 7 July have always been very close to my heart. Afterwards
I did a lot of research on how the events unfolded and put that into a
story.

Over time the
story has lain on my hard-drive as I’ve never been sure what to do with
it. As time went on I thought that it
was probably redundant. But I’ve decided
that I don’t want it to lay dormant forever, and so tomorrow on the anniversary
I’m going to post it here on my blog.

ASPIRING AUTHOR

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About Me

Hi
I'm a working mum of two young boys who is desperately trying to make it is a writer. I'm into contemporary women's literature, but also am a little bit besotted with social history and would love to be able to write something about the lives of women in times gone by.